


Marks

by MAVLOTOV



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Knifeplay, M/M, Stabdad AU, but also fluff? sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21595417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAVLOTOV/pseuds/MAVLOTOV
Summary: wrote this forever ago for myself, found it while digging through old files. enjoy.
Relationships: Spades Slick/Reader
Kudos: 26





	Marks

"You marked me."

He perks up, looking up from the accursed buttons that had every ounce of his attention just a moment ago. Confusion spreads across his features, as he looks at you, his head tilting just a touch.

"I _what_?"

"You marked me, jackass."

You point to the bruises littering your neck and chest. Slick was mouthy, in every sense of the word, always had been. However, last night, considering the impulsive and public nature of your encounter, he had to find _some way_ to keep himself muffled. So, the love bites had nearly tripled in number. 

Slick, however, did not seem to catch your meaning. Or, at least, he was being coy. That you could tell.

"Doll, those aint marks." He marks his statement with a roll of his good eye.

You cross your arms and lean on one hip, shirt still hanging limply from your shoulders.

"Is that so?" You watch him as he seemingly abandons his efforts to finish buttoning up and makes his way to your shared dresser. "What, pray tell, are they?"

The mobster seems to mull this over for a moment, while pulling out a drawer and rummaging through it.

"Hickeys. And hickeys... well, they aint marks."

"How are they not-"

"Is my name attached to 'em? Is every single one recognizable as comin' from me? Does every single one 'a those bruises tell everyone that sees 'em who you belong to?"

Your frame stiffens at the sudden stern tone, and he stares at you expectantly while retrieving a bottle of cologne and spritzing his neck. 

".. No. But-"

"Then they aint marks."

He turns away from you again, finishing up his shirt, tucking it in and fixing his collar.

Despite Slick's matter of fact way of ending this conversation, you know damn well what he's playing at. He wants you to question his line of thinking, and to encourage him. 

Fuck it.

"Jackie."

You see his features soften, just a touch, at the pet name, even from his angle. "Hm?".

"Just.. out of curiosity.." You twirl a bit of hair in your fingers, and he turns to meet your gaze again, barely hiding his grin. "..What.. _would_ be a mark, then? In your eyes?"

Slick does an amazing job of holding his grin back. Really, you're impressed.

He purses his lips and hums.

"Well," He starts, leaning his back against the dresser. "That'd have to be somethin' personal. Somethin' recognizable as me. Now, If only I had a symbol a' some sort.." 

Your brows knit together. He laughs.

"Oh, c'mon, I'm just joshin'." The smile spread across the mobster's features softens, his good eye looking you up and down. "Lay down."

And back up they go.

".. _Lay down_?"

"What, is there a fuckin' echo in here? Yes. Lay down. On the bed, on your back, spread your legs for me."

"... ** _Now_**?"

" _Yes_ , now. Jesus christ, kid, slow as ever on the uptake. I'm markin' you."

You could fry an egg on your poor face.

Nonetheless, with a curt nod, you did as you were told, settling on your back on the mussed up sheets and spreading your mostly bare legs. 

Slick grins, an expression you might have mistaken for pride were it not for the distinct glint of lust in his eye. The mobster takes a seat in-between your legs, one hand gingerly running across your thigh. Before you know it, he's pulled the switchblade from his pocket and flicked the blade out.

".. Jackie..?" 

"S'alright, sweetheart." His voice is far too soft, given the situation. "I aint gonna hurt you. Not much, anyway."

He studies your face for a moment, searching for any trace of fear, doubt, hesitation- anything to let him know that this is too much. Even when he doesn't find any, he still hums worriedly.

"It gets to be too much, you know what to do, yeah?"

"Say 'red light', and you'll stop." 

"Good."

You nod, feeling a bit more secure, and lay your head back down. One hand is placed firmly on your thigh, just above your knee, preparing to hold you still. 

The second the blade hits your skin, you tense. A soft whine escapes your throat, and your features betray every bit of pain. The knife isn't drawn back, but it isn't moved, either. You feel the mobster's gaze on your face, but you can't force yourself to return it.

"Still with me?"

You nod.

".. Alright."

He turns his attention back to your thigh. The pain is more than you expect, and only seems to get worse with time. .

At the halfway mark, he hisses through his teeth and pulls the knife away.

"Not deep enough."

".. Huh?"

"S'not deep enough. I want this to scar. Gotta go again."

He waits for a moment, and when your safe word doesn't come, back in your flesh the knife goes.

Much worse. Much, much worse.

This time, your whimpers are louder. This time, your whimpers turn into moans, and you can hear his breath getting a touch ragged. Not only that, but you feel him struggling to maintain the correct amount of pressure for as deep a wound as he's trying to make.

Not to mention the erection you distinctly feel against your calf. 

Before you have time to think too much on it, however, the blade you had become so intimately familiar with was slipped back into it's handle.

You say nothing as Slick slides back, enabling himself to admire his work, and lick the excess blood trickling down your thigh. 

The pain of his tongue lapping against your fresh wound makes you whimper, and your noise makes him moan in turn against your skin. A domino effect, as always, with him.

Once he's satisfied, he rests his cheek against your thigh, gazing up at you. You can't place the look in his eye, not completely. Not that it matters. 

"Better." He murmurs, eye flickering down to the lopsided spade and staying there.

You reach down, tangling your fingers in his hair, and can't suppress a small chuckle.

"No one is going to see this, you realize that, right?"

"Mmh."

Slick doesn't seem to care, and neither do you.


End file.
